Archive of Our Own

“Come on, Otto. Pack away the frown for later, okay? Let’s go do something fun. Wanna go by the parlor? The pianist tonight is that guy you like! The one who plays the really bad songs, and don’t- don’t give me that look! Your taste in music sucks, but I know it makes you happy.
What do you say?”
“Of course, Franklin.”

“Ottoman? Did you say something?”

When they blink, the vision of that warm smile is gone, replaced with Spark’s confused frown. He’s paused in the middle of… some action, arms held awkwardly as if still in motion. They don’t remember what he’d been talking about. Maybe they should feel bad about that, but they’re too distracted by the distant feeling of their pale cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
“N-no, sorry. You were saying?”

Spark’s frown deepens, eyes narrowing, but he continues where he left off regardless. He’s talking about some folk tale from his past, and he’s clearly invested in telling it; he moves with his whole body, arms raising and falling, swirling around in the small room like a dancer. It’s- he should have been a storyteller, when he was alive. Maybe he was?
Maybe he told them he was, at some point. Now they do feel bad, because he probably did, and they just forgot. 

They flash him a thumbs up, and he smiles warmly at them, eyes squeezed shut, and it feels like a punch to the sternum, knocking the breath out of them.

You shouldn’t be here.

The thought is out of the blue, but it rings true, in that moment. Their heart doesn’t beat anymore, but their hands are shaking and the breath they don’t need to breathe is coming sharp and shallow. It feels vaguely like they imagine a heart attack feels like, which means they can’t look very good right now.
“I-I have to- do something. Be back. Story’s great,” they bite out, stumbling from their seat like they can’t just float, because it feels like they can’t right now, like they’re weighted down. Spark says something, they’re pretty sure, but it falls on deaf ears. They shove through the door, tripping in their haste to get out out out, and Spark doesn’t follow.

(They don’t know why that stands out so much.)

The snowy fields would be unpleasant, usually. Ottoman never really liked the snow, and Franklin would always call them a killjoy for it, “How can anybody not like snow? What did the snow ever do to you, huh?” They’d make a show of huffing and puffing over it, if only because it made him laugh.

When he begged them to build snowmen and tunnels and forts on the days where the snow forced them to miss work, they always said yes- though not right away, of course; they had to make sure he worked for it. He’d grin up at them even while they grumbled, and his eyes would crinkle at the corners, and it looked so cute everytime he did it that they couldn’t ever find the energy to say no, even when their hands shook and ached from overuse.

He always knew when they were pushing their limits, and he’d take them to the teahouse and buy them their favorite, and they’d drink soup together when the flurries picked up into a blizzard.

A snowflake lands on the tip of their nose, a slight sting of pain- it’s all it takes. 

The memory is gone. They’re standing alone in a vast field of white, moon shining impassively down on them. Snowflakes dance around them, taunting them with the promise of pain, the echoes of lives once lived. 

They don’t even realize they’re crying until their cheeks start to ache.

What are you even doing out here? They can almost hear. You’re freezing.

They haven’t felt the cold in many, many years. Or, they have, but it never really gets worse. They clench at the ragged black sweater they’re wearing, like maybe that will ease it.

Ottoman should go back to Techno’s house. He’s not home right now- off mining, or hunting, or whatever he does when he runs off and they don’t follow. Kumo sticks by his side always, obnoxious and entertaining, if eerie, but Sparks and Bomp had stayed behind like they had, not in the mood to spend hours in the Nether. Sparks might even still be happy to continue his story that they hadn’t been paying attention to, if they’re lucky. 

More likely, though, he’s upset with them for running off in the middle of it, and won’t talk to them for a bit. They guess that’s only fair. It can’t feel nice to be really into something and have your sole audience run off like they were going to puke or die or even- even-
Wait.

They think of the door they’d shoved open, instead of floating through. Of the sweater they’re wearing, much more worn with holes and itchy, burnt spots than they remember.

They look down at their hands.

“.̶.̸.̸H̴a̸h̷.̵ ̶G̴u̷e̵s̷s̴ ̴t̷h̴a̶t̶'̶s̴ ̸w̷h̷y̸ ̶S̷p̸a̶r̵k̴s̸ ̷w̶a̴s̷n̴'̷t̴ ̷k̷e̴e̵n̸ ̶o̶n̶ ̵f̵o̶l̴l̴o̴w̵i̵n̶g̸ ̵m̷e̴,” they croak, and hot black liquid spills over their lips, joining the pale tears at their feet.

---

In the distance, Bomp hears- or rather, feels- someone screaming. 

Their pen drops from their hand, forgotten, a shudder ripped from their body without permission. It takes every ounce of will to stay in place, to not flee on instinct.

There’s a crash from the room over, the frantic sound of the doorknob juddering before Sparks falls through the door, looking as close to a frightened cat as he can, energy- hah- sparking around him like fur fluffing up. His eyes are wide, unseeing. They stand, as slowly as they can manage, and shuffle over to him, shushing him.

“Bomp, Bomp, something dangerous-”
“Settle. Settle. It’s over.”
“It’s not! Didn’t you feel that? It’s- something’s mad, Bomp, something’s going to come ‘ere a-and-”
Bomp sighs deeply through their nose, uncomfortably placing one hand on Spark’s shoulder, stilling him. He stares at their hand for a long moment, but it does it’s job, and slowly warmth spreads back into his body, color and temperature-wise. He still looks deeply, deeply wary, but less frantic. Good.

Another sigh. How to explain… “Spark, have you ever noticed, before, when a ghost or spirit feels like they’re giving off an energy that’s like… a matching magnet to you? And you can’t get close no matter what?”
Sparks thinks for a minute, before nodding, slow and unsure. “It was more like- like they were telling me to go away, without words, but yeah. Is this…”
They nod, expression grave. “Sometimes, Sparks, ghosts get… a little messed up. All ghosts are here because, for one reason or another, they feel like they need to stay. It’s not always logical, but a part of them has unfinished business, a reason that prevents them from passing on.
Some are… worse than others. About how they handle it.”
No, that’s not quite right. They start again, frowning.

“Or- It’s like… what’s a good metaphor… It’s like a head injury can be. They can change how your brain is wired for the rest of your life, if left untreated, and sometimes even if they are treated. And sometimes it’s really bad. Sometimes…”
They trail off, sighing. It would be much easier to…
Huh. Wait. Maybe they could just… do that.
“I have an idea. You’re going to have to hold my hand, alright?”
Sparks does not look enthused by this at all, like he’s guessed where this is headed, but he takes their hand regardless, squeezing once. Something wells up in their throat, the thoughts of old faces and tugging, excited hands, but they push it aside. 

“I’m going to show you a poltergeist.”
The hand in their grip spasms. Sparks looks at them like they’re insane.

Bomp takes off before he can take it back, and tries not to find too much amusement in the way Sparks yelps.

---

T̶̨͙̘̰̆̊h̶͓̦̙̅ ̷̺̒̎̅ͅë̷̛͍̠́̓̆y̷̥͓͇̋́ ̵̫͖͂̏r̷͙̱̘̫̿͛͘e̸̘͋̎̓ ̷̲͚͚̒̇́̍ ̶̤͓̿̑͋̕ͅȃ̸̡̛͉̗̊͋l̸̲͑͒̋͝l̵͕̽́̋͘y̴̰͛̂ ̴̡̺̲̽̈͋͠s̸̖̥͛̀̑̑ś̸̼͉̉͛̕s̵͚̫̻̽̃͝ḩ̴̪̥̐̓͠ ̶̼̦͎͎͌ö̴͔͎͠ͅu̷͎̗̯͇̿l̵̪̏̉͊d̶̠̄̚n̴͔̉'̴̯̝̟̎̃͐t̷̳̎̕͘͠ͅ ̸̥̯͊̃f̶̢̧̀ȇ̶̳͓ê̵̤̞̖͊l̸̝͎̋͌̈́̓ ̴̡͉̩̏ś̵̯̉͂o̴̜̔ ̴̞̲̏̃S̴̟̭̓͝t̶̥̦͌̂ȁ̴̿͜r̷̢̞̯͈̊͗v̶̼̪̘͋̒e̵̪͈͖̬͌d̶̡̟̍̓́.̸̨̧͉̫͛̅̚ ̵̛̺͕̰̓̓͆L̸̗͙͓͂ơ̴̥͗̈̍ ̸̤̚ͅo̷͍͖̅̍ ̶̧̣̫͉͗̌̈n̸̨̦͕̦͠n̵̼͚͖͒͌͊̂e̸̤̻͈̍̄̈́l̶̝̫̞͝ÿ̴̦̠͙̹̽͝͠.̴͕̓͂͆

̵̠͐̑̔͝H̸̯̲͐̇e̷̝͍̳̳̔'̸̭̕s̸̲͇͛̒̇ ̵͉͚͓̿̉r̶͙̝͑̽ḯ̴̢͕̥̱͠͝g̵̰̥͗ ̶̪̞̝̒̈́͐̄h̶͎̹̃ţ̴̢͍͛̽t̴͙̋̂̑t̴̡̛̬̩͜͝ ̴̩̩̼̮̆͘ḯ̸̗n̵̛̬̘̘̟͐̓ ̸̰͔̞͆̊̏͆f̴̡̅r̵̺̘̝͇͋̅̅͑ǭ̴̤͖ṅ̸̛̲͈̿͊t̷̡̍̾̒ ̶̧̑̈̽͘ȏ̶͎͎ͅf̷̡̐̋̂ ̶̱̗͓̑̿͒t̴͙̼̯̯͛̈́h̵͓̗̝̩͆͆͠é̶͚͓̈́͜ ̴͚̬̮͑̏͂ ̵͙̞̽m̶̻͎͉̈́́͝,̵̛̥̟̎̉̈́ ̷̧̀j̸̡̩͉̩̈́ų̷͍͎̮̐͠s̷͈͖̭͚͋̈́͛t̵̩̮̆̂͜ ̴͕̞͍͆̈̾͠ȏ̵̲̺͐u̴͕̖͖͂̓̕ͅt̸̙̃̇̿ ̷͚͠o̴͙͂̏͒f̷͙̘̝͊ ̸̨̱̭̐R̷̢͇͈̞͛̽͠e̴͙̬͛̇ ̴͓͕̓͜a̸̡̱͍̮͂̊̈́̍c̴̳̹̹̃͠h̸̼̳͊͘ͅ.̸̟̅̾͌̕

̶̧͚̺͆̐Ḯ̵̪̯̐͋͐t̸̩͍̺͛͋ ̷͕͊F̶̢̖͓͚̒̕͝ē̴̡̯͍̗é̸͖͉̅̃l̷͓̲̓̓̌̚s̵̛̤ ̷̝͆̒̕l̷̞̠͚̆ï̸̦̝̖͍̈́̽k̶̪̻̰̼̽͐͋ ̸̻͆̌̄͝ͅ ̴̤͖̽͜ ̴̫̪̃ ̶̞̆̂ ̵͖̰̮̽ ̸̘͇̙͖̑̌͗̑ ̸͙̩̐ ̶̯͂͂̽̅ ̴̨̛̐́ ̸̧̠̹̦͑͑e̸̳̦͋͗ ̸͇̦͊̐̂H̶͉̪̬͍̿e̶͓̰̅l̷͔̩͗̄l̷̫̃̈͜l̴̃͜͝l̴̹̂͌̽͆l̸͍̻̔̿̉͜ľ̴̦.̴̜̃̿

̷̛̟̹̰̐̚͜T̴̰͇̣̖̆̅͂̏h̶͚̝͉̃̀́e̵͓̥̫̓̚͝ẏ̴̼̗̠̓͑ ̴̘̤̲͍̃̿͆̑c̵͖̹̩͛̚ ̶̪̒̃ ̸̳̉͌l̸̡̫̺̠͋͐a̸̘̪̦͊w̸̺̹͠ ̵̺͓̹̓̓̓͝a̴̱͑̄n̵̼̘̠̍̽̒d̸͕̱̪͂ ̷̢̢̛̻̿s̶̟̗̚c̴̙̟̀̔̒ͅr̸͖̠͚̿e̶̜͍͍͐̊̂͜a̸͇̱̝̋̊͘ ̶̧̘͓̹͘m̴̻͊̕ ̶̡̛̤̝̭â̷̮̻̲̆̆͘n̸͔̑͆̅̊d̵̯̹̻̊̚ ̴̗̼͖͎̊̋̅c̶̳̠̪̗͑̌l̸̺̗͌̑̅̈ ̶̝̭̫͚͂͑à̶͚̰w̶̳̬̽̉̋͠ ̷̛̲̏a̸̼̽̌͋n̶̥̝̽ ̴̨͔͈̇̄ ̶̢̡͍̀͊̆ ̴̧̳̳̅̓͂̚ͅd̵̯̐̉d̸͚̮̂̚͠ ̷̢̬̳͆̈́̋̐ͅs̶̩̩̆̀c̷͕̣̎ͅr̶̥̭̝͒̉̓e̵͇͊̈́a̶̧̯̖̩̎̂͛͒m̸̞̬̱̽̏̾m̶̲̺̙̩͆͌̊ ̵̧̙̋͌͘ą̶̑̽̐͛n̶̪̪̔ͅd̴̦͋̅́d̶̠͇̯͓͑̎̈́ḏ̵̔͝d̵̥̞̏-̵̟̳̖̄-̵̱̔͂-̶͙͖̣͉͂͌

---

Sparks complains as they walk, but Bomp is pretty sure it’s just his way of easing his nerves, so they let it slide, and try to keep the conversation light. Even they are starting to feel the headache bearing down on their temples, so Sparks, as old as he is, probably isn’t feeling too hot. They make a mental note to make him some tea later, as an apology.

“So. Poltergeists. They’re real?” Sparks suddenly questions, works short and curt. Bomp glances back at him, and he’s got a hand to his forehead, and they feel a little guilty.

“Yeah. Poltergeisting can happen to anyone, but some ghosts- and even some spirits, if they get strong enough- are kinda… always like that. Not necessarily always in… this, sorta, fucked up emp blast this one’s doing, but they’re always on the verge of a meltdown. A lot of the time it’s memories that trigger it, but it can be outside stimuli and shit too.”
A pause, a breath.
“Sometimes they can kill living people. It’s messed up, and it’s rare, but-”
“If they’re mad enough, nobody can really get close enough to stop them?” Sparks guesses.
Bomp nods tightly.
Almost as if in response, another horrible, gut-wrenching scream shakes the land, and Bomp whips Sparks into their arms and holds , tight and unrelenting as he claws at them to get free, to run run run. He’s not even speaking, just making noises of fear and desperation, static pops dancing around in the snow.
The scream quiets. The world rights itself. Sparks goes slack in their arms, heaving like he’d ran a marathon. 

Bomp gives him a minute to collect himself before letting go, letting him step back and brush himself down. They avoid eye contact, hoping it eases the embarrassment. 

“...how do you ignore that?” He finally asks, hand sliding back into their own without hesitation. They squeeze it, receive one in return. They have to take a deep breath before they can speak.
“I don’t ignore it,” they point out, slowly finding their rhythm again as they walk. “The way I- I freeze? That’s a fear response. It’s just luck that it helps us, sort of.”
“Well, thank you for protecting me.”
I wasn’t about to lose someone else, Bomp doesn’t say, but it’s a near thing.

“No problem. We’re almost there.”

---

P̸̲̦̹̓̾͗̕l̵̬͈̜̏̔̈́e̸̹͙̎ä̵̝́a̷̧̼͇̐̔̍a̴̟̺̤͙͠s̶̨̧̩͙͌̔̋ ̸͓̺̉̀͜e̴̲̒̅ ̸͔̬̋͌j̷̢̧̬̆̍̐ȗ̶̢̨̉̈́̚ ̵̡̰̋̋͜ͅ ̵̟͕̭̾̈́s̷̬̣̊̔̓t̵̢̝̗̎̔ ̷̨̘͔͔͊̎̎̊H̶̨̛̜̀̾o̵̭͑͠͠͠l̵͎̞̬͙̇d̴͚̗̺͑ ̴̛̛͈̠̃m̶̩͠͠ ̷̱̦̭̳́ ̶͕̓̍͝ ̴͚͐ ̸̗͚̞̋̌ ̵̞̆e̶̢̯̒ͅ.̴̤͗̈̉̈́ ̵̯͍̯͎͒́

̷̩̆̾͘P̶̙̦̂͂͜l̸̩̼͓̾͆̓ ̴̛̪̖̝͈̿̀ȩ̴̮͇͋͝a̴̧̠̲̓s̸͖̰̦̅̒́͝ ̶̥̮̏̒̚͜͠s̶̟͐e̸̙̯͆͌̕ ̴̟̭̤̗̓̔͑͠ĵ̸̻̫̺͔u̵̗͆̚͠s̵̠̟̖̺͑̄̓̆t̸̻̏̈́ ̷͚̱̩̱͐Ş̸̹̎̅ ̶̛̼͗̋̚m̶̮̾͝ ̵͙̤̻̄i̶͓̗̱̺̔l̸̨̠̞̐̌ê̷͉̼ ̷̧̗͖͇̓͂͆f̴͕͇̬̣͑̈́̐ ̸̳̰̓͌͋ ̶̣̮͖͒́̔ó̷̹̪͊͗̐r̶̥͉̜͛͋ ̷̩̔̅̐͌m̸̦̝̦̞̉̈́̐ ̸̡̫̼̞̓̓͠é̶̬̼̗̻̓.̴̧͎̯̪͒͛͛

̷̟̲͇̈́I̴̠͑'̸͙̮̝͙̑͝m̸̨̖͈̘m̴̗͖̬̿͗̈́̆ ̵͎͚̜̏̂͋͆m̷̢̭̋̕͠ͅ ̵̨͗̃̂̕m̴̳̥͓͐̽ ̶̱͕͗͝ṡ̵̤̞͚̞o̵̬̔ͅ ̶͔̒̔͌̄S̶͎̣̑̒̉o̸̟̰͒ȑ̵̹̤͘ ̶͔̫͐ ̶̖͉̮̌̇̍͝ŗ̸̖̮̞̀̃ÿ̶̛̹̉ ̶̢̺̤̫͂Į̸͈͎̾ͅ ̶̰̑l̵̲̻͎̦̒̒̿̅e̸̦̮̤̦͗̿̍f̶͍̗̞̻̿̊ ̵̧̻̕͠t̴̯̮͕̞͒̄ ̸͈̈́y̴͉̣̥͗͒͊ ̷̥̽͑o̷̡̧̰̙̾ü̴̡̩̍̈́̕ ̴̨͇̿̔Ạ̵̄l̵̝̻̊̕͜o̸̬͔̦͝ṅ̴̥n̶͚̝̋̾ń̸̘͇e̵͉͑.̵̗̮͐͜

̵̼̅̾P̴͕͆͝l̴͕͖͑ẹ̶̠̯͓̇̓͠a̷͇͖̣͓͠ ̵̨̺̻͔̊ ̵͖̺͗ ̶̤̠̑̈́̌s̷͍̻̈è̴͔̲̙̟͌ ̴̜̦͉̠̓̕s̷̡̲͝t̷̫͚̋ö̴͈̱̇͊p̶̛̗͌͝͝p̴̡͙͎̙̃̈͝ ̶̻̳̰̜͐̐Ǐ̷͓̳͆g̷͔̙̣̚ ̸̢̯̞̤̊ ̴̯̹͈͊n̷̡̥̒̓͂͝o̵̗͗̃̈́̀ ̵̛̗̣͔͐͝r̵̻̤͔̾ĩ̴̘̥̼̅̏n̸̤̑͑̕g̷̝̗̐̓ ̶͖̭̼̽̔m̵̡͋̋e̵͙̒ ̴̠͓̪̽̈̾.̵͙̖͚͑̆͝

̸̨̰̲̺̓̇i̴̬͚̾̈ ̷̖̊͐͜d̸̠͚̋̿i̸̼̹͕͌͗d̷̼̼̝͓̿͆̆̕ņ̷̑̕'̵͕͕͝t̴̩͈̏̈́͝ͅ ̵̻̼̐̽m̸͉͖̙͍̒̑ë̸̤͔̾͗a̷̰̩̐̔n̷̲͆ͅ ̸̤̘̭̚i̴̮̲̗̎̑̇t̵̙̐͒̆͝.̷͍̼̾͛̔

---

The snowy fields around Techno’s home are pretty vast. It’d be easy to get lost, if you didn’t know how to follow the stars.
Or if there wasn’t a magnet furiously trying to push you away, only managing to give you it’s exact location.

Bomp would be grateful to their sudden poltergeist if it wasn’t such a pain to get to them.
They haven’t seen a poltergeist with such a large range in… hell, how long has it been? Decades, at least. Anyway, this poltergeist is being a huge bitch when it comes to educational fieldtrips, and Bomp is 100% mentally preparing a speech on how not to be a dick when you have a nervous breakdown.

All thought leaves their head when they find.

Well.

A fucking crater in the snow.

To anyone who wasn’t a ghost, or didn’t have sight , it probably would simply look like a charged creeper exploded and left a nasty hole in the earth.

To Bomp?

The pit is lined with shadows, crawling and shifting, wailing with mouths they lack, staring with eyes that don’t exist. They almost look thick , three-dimensional, like if you stepped on them they’d squelch like a particularly juicy worm. At the center, they crawl over a mound, forming a humanoid shape. The pit is alive.
The pit is their Poltergeist.

Capital P required, because holy shit.

“B-Bomp? Can we- is this enough? I think I’ve seen enough! ” Sparks begs, tugging at their grip half-heartedly. They probably should have said yes, let the both of them flee like they’ve been fighting the urge to for nearly an hour now, but something stops them, a niggling thought in the back of their mind, fighting for focus.

“It was more like- like they were telling me to go away, without words,” Spark had said, and Bomp realizes that it doesn’t… fit with this poltergeist. It doesn’t feel like… 

…

“Are you going to hurt me?” Bomp calls calmly, feeling Sparks’ alarmed eyes boring into the back of their head, but they had to ask, because maybe-
The shadows shrink inward, slightly, as if recoiling. An eye opens in the mass, looking at them for an unnerving second before closing again. 

Bomp turns to Sparks and finally, finally releases his wrist.
“I’m going to do something stupid,” they deadpan, turning around to face the pit once more. “You don’t have to stay for this part. Follow the two red stars, you’ll find your way back to Techno’s. When he gets back-”
“Save it, Bomp.”
Two feet shuffle to stand parallel to their own.
“I’ve gotten this far, and… I don’t know. Something about this feels wrong. Not the scary wrong, I mean.”
Huh. Guess it’s not just me, Bomp muses, before nodding.

“That’s very brave of you, kid.”
“If we go by this world, I think I’m older than you.”
“And if we go by my worlds, you should shut up.”
Sparks snorts despite himself.

“Alright, alright, fair enough.” He takes a deep breath, visibly calming himself, before, “Can you talk to us?”

---

c̶͈̼̽o̴̹͔̓̕͠m̷̧̭̤͇̐͊̊į̴͌͋͆n̵͔̭̟̬̾̾͒g̴̻͖͛͝͝ ̷̭̠̦̯̒̇.̸̠̾̌̓͗.̶͙̝͉̽͛.̴̣͈͗ ̵̳̥̽̓̚c̶̩̺̑̐͐l̶̮ő̴̭̓͘ ̷̧̲̺̹̽̋̇́s̵̨͇̲͂̈́̑ ̷͔̆̏͂e̷͇̲̐͊r̷̙̉̿̈́?̸͓͝

̸̩̆̍͠w̶̢͈̍̆ẖ̴̪̈́̊o̸̤̪̤͊̌?̸̢̮̃̏͜

̵̛̲̕͜s̸̜̆̑̔͛c̴͖̟̈̐̈́̄a̸̭͇̩̍̌͜ṟ̷̻͈̤̌̓y̴̨̎.̶͚̬̪͚̽ ̴̯̗̑ä̶̢͇͒w̴̱̿̓̒̌ȁ̸̘̱̯̀ÿ̶̧̛́́.̷̫̃ ̷̮͂p̵̰͌ ̵̠̄l̴̨̩̜͆̾̎͠e̷̠͂a̴͙̖̐̍̏͐ ̸̳̭̾̾͋ ̸͍͂̕ ̶̧̰͖̲̆̚s̷̡͖͕̘̋̂e̴̦͍̘͗̽̽͐ ̶̱͇̗̕ͅḩ̸̝͗̈͌͝ͅō̷̗̎͆ļ̵̰͆͑̏ḽ̷̡͖̯͊͋͘d̵̩̖͎̪̈͝ ̸̩̟̯̈̉m̵̧̗̜͠e̷͍͉̮̓̇.̸͔̿̔

---

There’s-- certainly a sound , but nothing like any language either of them have heard. That’s a no , then.

“Are you- wait, no, of course you’re not okay. Can we come closer?” Bomp tries.

Another series of noises that makes Bomp’s temples throb, sluggish and thick. The shadows squeeze inward, slightly, pushing to the edges and slightly over the lip of the crater. Bomp looks over at Sparks, mouthing slow, but it seems he’s already figured it out, staying quiet and low to the ground, hands held out, open. The universal I’m not gonna hurt you symbol. Bomp smiles, copies him as best as they can.
“Coming closer, okay? You’re very brave,” Sparks hums, shaky but reassuring.
Without warning, a handful of eyes bubble to the surface, startling the two into yelping, and the shadows judder for a moment, as if frightened. The eyes narrow, but they seem… milky. 

“Are you blind?”

The eyes blink, almost definitely unseeing, before they reabsorb into the mass. When more resurface, they’re on a different side, a bright, beautiful shade of violet. Something about them almost feels familiar, and they’re struck with deja vu, steps faltering.

“Hang on. Hang on. Sparks?”
The ghost pauses, looking back at them with furrowed brows.
The eyes next to them blink, moving to look at Sparks. There almost seems to be recognition there.
Almost.

When it clicks, their stomach sinks so low it feels like it’s going to fall out of them.
“Sparks, when did you last see Ottoman?”
The emotions that cross his face almost flash by too quickly to recognize. Confusion, recollection, realization. Disbelief, horror.

Ah.

He swallows so harshly they can hear it from several feet away.

“They- they were zoning out when I was telling a story about old gods, and then they just- gave a lame excuse and left. And they opened the door, Bomp, I didn’t- I just thought they were feeling weird-”
“It’s not your fault,” they quickly assert, reaching out to hold Sparks’ hand. “It’s not your fault this happened. I told you, it’s… Some are just more prone to it.”
They glance at those eyes, which are seeming locked on their hands wrapped around Sparks’ own.
“...I just didn’t think Otto was one of ‘em.”
F̷̳͕͚̽̃̏̀ṛ̴̓a̵̢̦͘n̴̖̖̜͒̓k̷͓̃.̷̟̫̍͋̓͂.̸̢̺̪̐͒̅͠ͅ.̴̝̾̈́ ̵̲͉̯̎̈́l̸̫͈̓͝i̵̙̝͚̺͑͝n̵̞̠̎?̶̺͠ The mass gurgles. This time, Sparks must recognize what they say, because his expression grows melancholy.
“Oh, Otto…”
The eyes blink, shiny with dark tears, before sinking away. The shadows shift, curl further in. Bomp looks at Sparks, a little lost, themselves. He shuffles forward, resolute.

They follow.

“Ottoman, Franklin isn’t here. I thought you said you were glad he wasn’t?” Sparks says, and he says it like a question, unsure. The shadows cringe, the figure in the center curling in on themselves.

Ĭ̸͇̹̘̇ ̶̡̘́̉m̴̭̄͗̀͘ĭ̷̫̜̘̿̽͐ṡ̸͙̆̌̈s̵̟͇̖͊̐̆.̶̨͓̰́̅̿̈́.̶̯͓̼̀̽͠.̴̹̬̖̯̊͋ ̴̠͈͖̄̄͠h̷̜̚͝͝i̴͈̅̍̄m̸̛̤̯͈͍.̵̛͇̯̞͑̈̐

Bomp finds their lip wobbling and swallows back the emotions welling in their throat.
“I know how that feels, Otto. I… I know how that feels.”
m̶̧̌̈̚ĩ̶̭̤͉ͅs̸͙̳͉̆ș̴̛̱͙̕ͅ ̴̬̖̲̂͊̆h̸̫̮͇̠̎̐ǐ̶͍̩̥̗͆͊s̸͕͑̂̃̔ ̸͙͈̻̓͆͠ͅs̵̨̙̥͕̓̔̕͠m̷̢̧̞̙͛̂̋͝i̷̖̙̭̹̒̋͐l̷͎̎e̶̙̔́̚
They move closer, almost close enough to touch. The shadows melt from the edges of the crater, pooling into the center, into the figure. Even so indistinct, Bomp can see their shoulders quaking.

“I know, buddy. I know.”

A echoing sob.

u̵̫͒͐s̶͙̥͖̍e̸͖̙̩͆͂d̷̛̗͔̲̀͛͊ ̵̺͂̋͘ẗ̵͚͔̰́͛͌͜o̸̫̊͌ͅ ̸̜̣͂̇h̴̯̽̓̚ȏ̴̞̫̘̈́̌̔ͅl̶̦̼͚̾̇̚d̷͕̰͉̫̆̎ ̸͖̆̽͘͝m̵̻̫̭͈͑͐ȇ̴̱̎̌

An unspoken question passed between Bomp and Sparks, eyes locking.
The shadows drain. The figure solidifies.

When Ottoman’s face appears, their teeth are bared, and their cheeks are stained by black tears.

p̷̬̎l̷͇̀e̵̠͠a̶͇ṡ̶͓ẻ̵̘ ̶̲̐ḥ̷͛o̷̹̅l̶̨d̸̲̅ ̵̫͊m̶͔͗ȅ̶͜.̷̢̐

“Okay,” Bomp murmurs, shuffling forward, careful not to get black ooze on their pants. They open their arms, but Ottoman doesn’t… move, just sits there, fingers digging into their pants.

P̷͓͊l̶̯͆ệ̷ả̴̯s̸͙̾e̵̛͖

Sparks blinks, as if realizing something, before he gently grabs Ottoman’s shoulders, drawing them into Bomp’s embrace, and into his own. 

The sobs that tear from their friend are sharp, painful.
Bomp and Sparks hold them through it, even if it makes them feel unsure, uncomfortable. They hold onto Ottoman, rock them gently, and shush them as they apologize, over and over and over.

Later, when they get back home, drinking tea and soup, Ottoman still foggy-eyed and quiet but there , Sparks tentatively asks why they think they… you know.

Ottoman smiles, then, faint.

“You… you smile like he does. With your- with everything. Like it… feels good just to do .”

There may be another hug session after that, or two, or five. 

When Techno comes back finally, Kumo shortly behind, and find them all passed out at the table, which he didn’t even know ghosts could do, he lets them be, at least for now. 

It looks like they need it.